by Mark Wisniewski
There are thousands of would-be novelists in Manhattan, most of them lacking talent outright, a portion of this majority blessed with the inkling that they need assistance, a few from this portion affluent enough to pay someone like me to raise their manuscripts toward publishable quality. Without me, my clients write barely disguised autobiographies rife with passive voice verbs, run-on sentences, and forced usages of the word shards. With me, they think they have a chance.
by Mary Jo Bang
The risk of proximity is always
that the body will not contain itself.
In the quietest breath,
quisling lungs give away tiny maps of the self—
by Ronald Wallace
The poet says that language is an absence,
and a beautiful absence, at that. Representation
is an illusion not worth pursuing, a limitation
on the imagination’s plate.
by Delisa Mulkey
The aliens are supposed to land in Mexico City today, June 5, 1995.
The good aliens—Pleiadians, Arcturians, Sirians.
They form an interplanetary United Nations called the Ashtar Command,
and are coming to give us that key that unlocks the 90 percent of our brain we
Without them all we have is God, which is not enough anymore.
Previous selections Browse editions Newer Selections